A PERFECT DAY. 



BY 



GEO. W. VAN SICLEN. 



I TAKE my rod this fair June morning, and go fortli 

 to be alone with nature. No business cares, no roar' of 

 the city, no recitals of others' troubles and woes which 

 make the lawyer a human hygrometer, no doubts nor 

 fears to disturb me as, drinking in the clear, sweet air 

 with blissful anticipation, I saunter through the wood- 

 path toward the mountain lake. As I brush the dew 

 from the bushes around me, I spy in a glade golden 

 flowers glowing on a carpet of pure green, mingled 

 with the snowy stars of white blossoms ; with their fra- 

 grance comes the liquid, bell-like voice of the swamp- 

 robin, hidden from curious eyes. Soon seated in my 

 boat, I paddle to the shade of a tall, dark hemlock and 

 rest there, lulled by the intense quiet. Ever and anon 

 as I dreamily cast my ethereal fly, a thrill of pleasure 

 electrifies me, as it is seized by a vigorous trout. 



I have long classed trout with flowers and birds, and 

 bright sunsets, and charming scenery, and beautiful 

 women, as given for the rational enjoyment and delight 

 of thoughtful men of aesthetic tastes. And if 



